


Got a Bad Desire

by orphan_account



Category: Castle
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Kink Meme, Orgasm, Sexual Frustration, Vaginal Fingering, horny beckett, kinkofthecastle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:42:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3094691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the Kink Meme Prompt: Pairing Castle/Beckett. Pre-couple season 3/4. <br/>Kate is sick or injured. She is incredibly and PAINFULLY horny. She needs to get off. Maybe it's necessary for her getting better? A side effect? But she can't do it herself (hands in casts, wrists sprained, etc). Castle keeps asking her what's wrong and doesn't relent. She finally yells out her issue and cries. Out of desperation she begs him to finger her and give her an orgasm. He obliges and she gets some relief. Things progress each day. He fingers her with her clothes on, next day he strips her off, next day he eats her out until one day he finally fucks her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got a Bad Desire

**Author's Note:**

> In my mind this is actually set late S2, but before Demming shows up. Things got messy in S3 with significant others, and there are only so many Joshless S3 AUs a gal can write.
> 
> Admittedly I'm trying to fill a Kink Meme prompt a day, meaning quality might not be up to my usual, but I hope people might forgive that :)

It all started because she landed wrong. Jumping a guard rail to catch a suspect, she caught her foot on the edge of the metal and slammed to the ground, while Espo and Ryan cleared it with no problems, tackled the runner and took him down. She had put her hands out to brace herself, too caught up in catching the asshole who'd run to think about the angle of her wrists – and the crunch had told her everything she'd needed to know before the pain had even registered.

Even Castle had been unaware of her injuries at first. "You didn't stick the landing there, Beckett," he'd snarked. Then he'd seen her face, and his own had changed to that of concern. She'd tried to suck it up, to keep from letting the pain show, but with two broken wrists and fingers that were already swelling it was too much for even her. And she'd cried. Just a little. In front of everyone. And the humiliation had only made it worse.

Now she was off work, for at least four weeks, both arms in casts, in pain and royally pissed off.

* * *

Three weeks in and she got the update: she was only halfway through the torture. She had been stuck at home, using up all her leave, for three goddamn weeks, but the boredom wasn't the worst of it. The boredom she could handle. It was something else. Something she couldn't quite figure out how to fix by herself.

And Castle kept stopping by, kept dropping off soups she could slurp through a straw (it was all so fucking undignified she was ready to maim the guy who had run in the first place and put her in this situation) and offered to feed her – like she was a fucking child. She could do this. She could pick up a fork and bring the food to her lips… but it was a struggle, and the soup did make her life just a little easier. She could accept that. But the worst - the absolute worst - was the persistent throbbing between her legs, her need to just get off, just once, to ease her frustrations. Of course Castle had noticed. He kept asking if she was okay, and it was obvious he wasn't meaning her wrists. He meant the tormented look in her eyes, the frustration all over her features, and he hadn't quite put his finger on why she was snapping so much, and she knew he didn't buy her boredom speeches.

_His finger... fingers...  
_

She got distracted, for a moment, picturing herself spread-eagle on a bed, a finger teasing her folds, flicking her clit, thrusting inside her. And it wasn't her finger. Not anymore. After three weeks of pretty much only seeing Castle each day, seeing his hands as he placed soup on her table, it was all she pictured now: his hands, his fingers, making her climax.

And she needed to. So bad.

She couldn't shake it off. Only one thing would fix it. A hard, fast orgasm. Yet that was the one thing she couldn't have.

It was almost the end of week four when she finally snapped.

* * *

"Sick of soup yet?" Castle asks, standing in the hall outside her apartment, a to-go cup of soup held in his hands.

She studies his hands, his dexterous fingers, thinks of her own barely useable ones. It's not that she can't pick things up, or open doors, it's more the lack of motion the casts gives her. The sprains in her fingers are healing, but the soft-tissue damage is taking longer than she'd expected. Her wrists don't even feel that sore anymore, not compared to the first couple of weeks, anyway. But she's still stuck in these damn casts for two more weeks. His fingers twitch around the cup, and she snaps her eyes away and meets his. He doesn't wait for an invitation anymore, he just wanders in like he lives there and places the soup on her kitchen counter.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"It's fine," she lies, following him in. "The variety has been appreciated."

"For even more variety, the offer to feed you is still open."

She expects to see a teasing glint in his eyes, a smirk on his lips, but he's serious. Completely serious. And that throws her a little. "Thank you, but no."

Her voice had been firmer than either had expected. She shifts her weight as he studies her, and the throbbing between her legs only increases.

"Something else is going on," he tells her, his brow furrowed, eyes intense.

"Nothing else," she lies.

"Your body-language says different."

"Stop studying me, Castle," she snaps. She blows out a frustrated puff of air, and drops her chin. When she lifts her eyes again he's still watching her.

"It's been almost two years," he begins, the words coming out slow, cautious. "We're friends now. You can talk to me, Kate."

Warmth spreads through her at the use of her first name. Damn him and his ability to get to her. Damn his soft eyes, his warm smile, those thick, talented fingers.

_Christ._

She never stood a chance. She was doomed from the moment he sat opposite her almost two years ago and complimented her eyes, she had just managed to find ways to release the need, so it never showed. It's pent-up now, collecting in her tingling, damp core; when he looks at her, runs his eyes over her body and takes her state in, it starts to get away from her. The buzzing of arousal fires off nerve endings, and the heat courses through her veins. Her roommate in college spoke of sitting on a washing machine once… Maybe…

"I can help," he tells her, interrupting her top-loader fantasies. "Whatever it is, let me in." He's almost pleading with her, and he has no idea what he's suggesting. No idea she's about ready to throw him down - because in her fantasies her hands and arms work just fine - and sit on his face.

No. Not his face. _Washer._ Yes. Excellent plan…

He steps closer to her, and she takes a step back. Her skin burns; she's overheating, flushed from his dark eyes scorching her. "Castle," she says, a warning in her tone.

He ignores it, steps closer still, until he's standing right in front of her. She hasn't stepped back again, just stands her ground, determined not to let him get to her.

"Are you sick?" He lifts a hand, presses it to her forehead, and she flinches. "You're awfully pink."

"Not sick," she manages.

And then he's too close; he's touching her flushed skin, his breath is fanning across her cheek, and all she can feel is him. His scent wraps around her, and she's done for.

"Sex," she blurts out.

His eyes widen, and he pulls back. "Excuse me?"

"I need sex," she snaps. "I need-"

"Sex," he finishes.

"Now."

"With me?" he squeaks.

She leans in, the stupid casts keeping her from pressing her body against his, and claims his lips - his stupid question answered. He kisses her back, his mouth open and hot against hers, before his senses kick in and he breaks it.

"I don't know if—"

"Really?" she asks in disbelief and annoyance. "All the innuendo, all the teasing, and when the moment is finally offered to you you're unsure?"

"You're frustrated so I'll let your tone of voice slide," he tells her. He's silent for a moment, his eyes moving up her body in a slow drag of indecision. She swears she can almost see his mind working, can almost hear the battle being silently waged. It feels like hours, but it's only seconds really, before he gives an amost imperceptible nod, and says, "I can help with your little problem." He moves in, trails a finger down her hairline, tucks her hair behind her ears with a gentle touch, and then whispers, "Does a quick, dirty orgasm sound okay?" His lips are so close to her skin she shivers as his breath caresses her and her legs almost buckle from his words.

"Please," she groans out.

"But not sex. Not yet."

She frowns. But his hand cups the crotch of her yoga pants, his fingertips press up, applying pressure to her clit. She drops her head back and closes her eyes, and she becomes deliciously aware of the answer to what he has planned. He's going to finger her until she comes – and fuck, she's just fine with that.

Lips still near her ear, he says, "Turn around."

She's so aroused now his voice alone might make her come. She turns, and he wraps an arm around her waist, and pulls her back against him. He holds her securely to him, the bulge in his pants pressing against her ass. She wiggles her hips, brushing against him, harder, and he clings to her with one arm looped around her waist, letting her attempt some relief. But she just can't get the pressure where she needs it.

He chuckles, low against her ear, and slides his free hand down beneath the waistband of her pants. But not beneath her panties. He finds her throbbing, cotton covered clit, and begins to massage her through the material.

She slumps against him, letting him take her weight, and slides her legs a little further apart. She feels herself growing more and more damp beneath his touch, the engorged bundle of nerves responding with each rotation.

The cotton scratches against her clit, and his touch is firm. The fire builds within her; he's firm but gentle, circling her with tight rotations, pressing his growing erection against her ass to remind her what she's doing to him. Her legs begin to shake; she drops her head back against his shoulder, and loses herself in his touch. She's so on edge, it doesn't take long. The sensations reach the point of almost becoming too much, the coil within her winds painfully tight, and then it breaks – and she shatters. Her breath hitches and she releases tiny sobs of release as the waves roll through her. He holds her against his chest through it all, still stimulating her clit while she falls apart in his arms.

"Better?" he murmurs, cupping her throbbing clit with his hand but only applying gentle pressure now.

She can only inhale a broken breath in response.

His nose grazes her cheek, but he doesn't kiss her, just nuzzles her while she comes back into her body again.

He eases his hand out of her pants, straightens her clothing, and brushes his lips across her cheek. "Next time you need me, just ask," he says in a voice deeper than she's ever heard from him. He spins her around, cups her cheek, and all she can smell is her musky scent on his fingers as he kisses her.

He leaves her, marked with her own arousal, fully-clothed, somewhat bewildered, but more relaxed than she's been in weeks.

* * *

The relief lasts a mere twelve hours.

She wakes up the next morning aroused from a dream about his fingers. Except this time she knows exactly how they feel, and the dream is so vivid she had almost orgasmed in her sleep.

And, _fuck,_ now she needs to.

He stops by at nine, coffee in hand, and if she could only curl her stupid, stiff fingers around his shirt she'd have dragged him inside and ridden that grin well past noon. He sees the look on her face, sees it in her eyes, like the images inside her head are being projected between them on an IMAX screen, and asks, "Again?"

She almost laughs at the awe in his voice.

He steps in, puts the coffees down on the table, brushes his lips across hers, and murmurs, "Are you always like this?"

"I usually take care of it myself," she admits, her voice hoarse. "But…"

"Well, please, let me…"

His fingers dance over the sides of the shorts she slept in, and he hesitates.

"Can I take these off?"

Getting dressed is such a long process she's only been making herself presentable when absolutely necessary. She wouldn't be against a little help, so she nods, and waits. There's not much to the shorts, but still he drags them down her legs, removing some restrictions this time, and unwittingly giving her one less thing to worry about today.

He swallows thickly, almost frozen in place. No panties. Maybe she should have mentioned that? But where's the fun in that? He helps her onto a chair, kneels between her spread legs, and she's so ready to feel his tongue against her that her hips buck towards his mouth without her permission. But it's his fingers than slide across her drenched core, and she's almost disappointed. Almost. The tips of her toes press into the hardwood floor, and it's all that keeps her from sliding off the chair in pleasure as two long finger enter her, hard and deep.

She sobs out her approval, his thumb working her clit while his fingers thrust to his knuckles, before beginning the long, slow, slide out. Again, and again. Each time just a little faster, his thumb keeping pace. Her blood feels like it's boiling in her veins, her skin so pink she might ignite. He works tirelessly, but the whole time he's watching her. Even with her eyes closed tight she can feel his burning into her, watching for a sign she'll need him to stabilize her, and ready – just in case. As the tension builds, as her heart pounds and her muscles weaken, she somehow manages to keep from sliding off the chair into an aroused – undignified – heap on the floor. She keeps her balance, her eyes closed, her immobilized arms braced against her body, and rides out the orgasm as it washes over her. Wave after wave of pleasure ripple through her, and she clenches around his fingers, the spasms unrelenting. And then the world calms, her body slumps forward, and she manages to catch a breath – and he's there to catch her, to hold her in place with a damp hand to her abdomen, and keep her safe.

Feelings flutter into her stomach, a dizzying mix of arousal, release, and love. _Love?_ Damn, that caught her off guard. She would have sworn it was just lust, but she sees it reflected in his own eyes as her vision clears – and she can't deny it. She has fallen for him. Goddamn, she never stood a chance, did she?

* * *

He arrives the next evening, no food this time (because she can use a knife and fork now and feels like a functioning adult again) but carrying a bottle of wine, and unable to hide the smirk playing on his lips.

He doesn't speak, he just puts the bottle down (maybe they'll actually get around to drinking it, unlike yesterday's coffees), grips her hips, and walks her backwards into her bedroom. He eases her down on the bed, tugs her jeans down without a word, pushes her legs apart, and sucks her clit between his lips.

She can't think, almost can't even breathe. He just devours her, licking his way around her clit before plunging his strong tongue inside her.

"Fuck," she moans out on a shuddering breath, wishing she could slide her fingers through his hair and pull him closer. His thumbs open her wider, keeping her folds out of his way so his tongue can explore unhindered. She doesn't even try to stay in control, just thrusts her hips against his face, panting, "More, more, there, yesssss." He enters her with two fingers, stimulates her g-spot, and it's all over. Her orgasm sends a gush of warmth to his tongue, still working her clit, and her body shudders so violently she sees stars.

When the tremors subside, he crawls up on the bed beside her. She turns her head and meets his lips, and all she can taste is herself - and _fuck_ she could go another round already. Her eyes flick to his crotch, the straining bulge in his pants, and she gives him a coy smile.

"Let me take care of that for you," she tells him.

But he shakes his head. "Next time," he promises.

She nods, and snuggles against him as best she can with the fucking casts (that she's past ready to hacksaw off herself) getting between them. He wraps his arm around her, mindful of the purple fibreglass hindrances, and manages to arrange their bodies so her head rests of his chest.

"Officially the best partner ever," he murmurs, a playful edge to his tone.

A bubble of laughter leaves her lips, and she nods against him. "Can't argue with that." The last three days it's been all about her, and it's been amazing, but she needs to return the favour. And she wants… _more_. God, she wants it all. It's not even about the need for release anymore. It's about a sudden undeniable need to have him inside her in the most intimate of ways. But she wants him to find his own release, and not from his own hand, like she's sure he's been doing the past few days. No, she wants to do it, to draw his orgasm out, to feel him emptying his load inside her.

"What dirty, nasty images is your mind conjuring up there, Beckett?"

Fuck. _Busted._ She meets his eyes and can't help the smirk that takes over her face. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Maybe tomorrow night you can show me?"

She grins. "It's a date."

* * *

She studies her hands early the next evening in the bright lights in her bathroom. Her fingers look normal again, long and slim and their usual color. All puffiness, all faded yellow bruising, is gone. She flexes them, and smiles. They say touch is healing. She can't help but wonder if Castle's hands on her has helped with her healing. Her wrists don't even ache anymore. The casts still wrap around both her wrists, from around her thumb, up almost to her elbows, but by the end of next week they'll be gone and she'll be back at work. She could go back now, build theory in front of the murder board, even fill in a form or two – but Montgomery is even more stubborn than she is, so at home she stays.

It's not so bad though.

Because Castle's coming over tonight.

And, oh yes, she has so much to show him.

(And, if she feels confident about what she thinks she saw in his eyes, there might even be something she tells him too).

_**End.** _


End file.
